


we're simply meant to be

by caprelloidea



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nightmare Before Christmas Fusion, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, cs spoopy week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caprelloidea/pseuds/caprelloidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Nightmare Before Christmas AU.  Emma is the princess of Valentine’s Day Town.  Killian is a realm traveling, liquor looting, candy stealing Pirate King.  Sparks fly when they cross paths on their quest for a new adventure.  Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're simply meant to be

**Author's Note:**

> This tale takes place sometime after the events of the film. This was a little bit of silliness that turned into a rather ginormous bit of silliness. I own nothing recognizable. I hope you folks enjoy it. Happy Halloween!

Killian Jones stalks along the shore, fog swirling in his wake as he basks in the light of the moon.  As many things are wont to be in this realm, the sand beneath his feet is black, sharp, gnarled.  It glitters in the faint light of the moonrise, and tumbles airily down the slope of his footfalls.  The water that heaves along the banks clings to his boots like oil before slithering back along the sand with a dulcet _hiss_. 

In short, Killian is caught in a bit of a rapture.  Naught but a moon cycle remains before the next Halloween and he can practically taste it on his tongue.  The debauchery sets his blood aglow, and unlike the skeletal King of this realm, he never tires of it.  Granted, the enchanted wood of the Jolly Roger allows them subtle passage from Town to Town, and they were fresh from plundering an unholy cache of liquor from the – now rather irate, he imagines – citizens of St. Patrick’s Day Town.  So he never quite manages to find the opportunity to be bored. 

He _does_ , however, find it easy to feel a bit overcrowded.  Hence, the promenade.  A bit of peace before his crew demands to know every trivial detail of their Next Great Heist.  Addicts, they are, but then so is he, gears in his head aweigh even as the ale pilfered oh so lovingly from St. Patrick still warms his face.  

Killian schemes wildly as he kicks at the sand.  The sepulchral songs of the dead and the merrily damned drift over the hills.  The occasional serpent pops from the ground, eyeing him as he strolls along.  Here, things ooze and they creep, and he must say he finds it rather comforting. 

His peace, however – as are most things in this Town – is short lived.  He can hear them before he can see them, singing and shouting as they wreak a path of havoc towards the bay.  No doubt they’ve caught sight of the Jolly on the horizon. 

“Why,” he says, greeting them as they finally fall in a heap at his feet, cackling madly as they scramble about.  “If it isn’t Clock, Block, and Trammel.” 

The children shriek with delight, dancing about him even as he walks, very nearly tripping over his coattails.  “That’s Lock, Shock, and Barrel to you, _mister_.” 

“And that would be _King_ to you.”  His voice drips with menace, but the grin on his face breaks the façade.  He stops, reaching down into his satchel as they link hands, turning in circles about him as they chant, “London Bridge, we’ll burn it down, we’ll follow you to any Town!” 

“Ah, ah,” he tuts as he brandishes an ornate crooked dagger, blade as black as night, bones of the vile thing he’d snatched it from still grasping the bejeweled hilt.  The urchins devolve into a chorus of protests, grubby hands pawing at his vest as they leap and reach in vain.  “No lost boys on _my_ ship, I’m afraid.” 

He teases them a few moments more before tossing the thing, bones and all, into the water, laughing as they clamber over one another, slick with the abominable salty sludge of the Town’s ocean. 

“What do you say?” he shouts after them as they manage to fish it from the tide, tossing it about as they scurry along the shore. 

“Thank you, Mr. Pirate King, sir,” they snark, and they disappear over the hills. 

He smiles, shaking his head as he continues on.  Lost boys, indeed.  He’d been one himself, once, many, _many_ moons ago... 

He’s managed to convince himself that it’s simply a game – bringing the hellish, immortal youth a delightfully dangerous gift each time he finds himself back on Halloween’s waters.  They are, quite literally, demons, and by the time Killian reaches the docks, he’s circularly reassured himself that it is _not_ , in fact, the bloom of familial affection.

“Aye, Captain!”  

His crew shouts nonsense at him as boards, cheering as they clank their glasses together, rum and ale and heinous mixtures of alcohol of all sorts sloshing on the deck.  He’d give them hell for it but, quite frankly, he’s tired, and they deserve a bit of rabble rousing.

So he takes a seat alongside them, hardly lifting a finger before a mug of blue, glowing _something_ is pushed under his nose.  He slams his hook in the oversized barrel they’ve repurposed as a table.  A slight fellow they’ve come to call Squelch nearly drops his sorry head.  They quiet down as Killian reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a handful of dice and a dice cup – a goblet, really, something he’d also snatched from the the Town of St. Patrick.

He grins, watching as the lot produce dice out of corners and crevices he’d rather forget.  “Make a liar out of me, gents.”

It’s the last coherent thought that comes out of his mouth for the night, and they gamble everything from rations to ligaments until Halloween’s shadowed sun sends them crawling desperately for the shadows. 

* * *

He wakes to the last light of day, sprawled on the floor of his cabin, an impressive – and a mite atonal, he must say – symphony of agony beating at the inside of his skull.  His jacket is wickedly askew, caught about his legs in knots he couldn’t possibly have tied during his best waking hours.  He’s in the rather humiliating process of wiggling out of it when he feels delicate paws tickle a path up his leg.  He manages to wrench his hook from his jacket sleeve, and smiles through the ache in his head before he reaches down, indulging a fond smile as his favorite feline visitor catches her claws in the fabric of his vest.

Nyx, delightful little hell raiser that she is, has been happily leaving bits of herself behind on his boots since he stumbled upon Halloween Town some centuries ago.  She’s skin and bones, less skin than bones, and she’s the exact color of the Town’s slick, blackened waters.  She’s a peg in place of one of her forelegs.  The peg is Killian’s doing, as a matter of fact, loathsome to see another creature stumbling about with three where there should be four. 

Somehow, she’d wriggled her way into a dusty corner of his heart.  Which would be why he allows her to molder all along the Jolly.  Typically, he requires his departed crew members be _sufficiently_ dead – the ick wrecks the finish – but he makes an exception. 

“Sire, sire, _sire_!” 

Smee shouts down the ladder to his quarters, interrupting, as usual, a brief moment of piece, adding to the clamor in his head.  He’s only just struggled to his feet, Nyx crawling over his shoulders.  “Oi, mate!  _Kindly_ lower your voice, before I have you keel hauled.”

“But it’s _Sally_ , sire!”

Killian sighs.  If Sally Skellington has found her way onto the Jolly, then he’s likely in for a good verbal lashing.  He climbs reluctantly up to the deck, Nyx’s claws digging into his shoulder blades as he does.  Smee is dancing about nervously, but he skitters away – along with the rest of the crew still hanging about – at Killian’s scathing look.

“ _There_ you are,” Sally says, hardly giving him a moment to adjust to the light before she’s berating him.  “Not one day in Halloween and you’re already throwing wrenches in the preparations.”

Killian smiles, laying it on thick as he takes her cushy hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.  “My dear, you are looking positively dismal this evening.”

Her eyes very nearly roll out of her face.

“Fine, fine,” he says, dropping her hand.  “What have they done now?”

She gives him a look.  “They were throwing _wrenches_ in the _preparations_.  Straight in the gear shafts.  The mayor’s head is spinning so fast, Jack can hardly look at him long enough to calm him down.” 

“Eh,” he grunts, scratching bashfully at the scruff on his jaw.  “I’ll join them during the dreaming hours when I’m dead.  Meanwhile, those departed enjoy a few…”  He waves his hook, wracking his brain for a diplomatic end to that thought.  “…diversions.”

She tuts, looking him up and down.  Her wide eyes appear to look through him, from here to the end of eternity.  “When are you going to settle?”

He scoffs, surprising himself with the bitterness that leaks into his voice.  “I’m afraid I don’t know the meaning of the word, darling.”

At this, Sally’s expression softens, and she pats his arm. 

“Oh, Killian,” she says.  Her eyes are kind, knowing.  It disarms him.  “You have a big heart.”  At this, she reaches out to scratch Nyx under her chin.  She purrs loudly in his ear, tail curling around his neck.  “But it’s restless…it’s wild.  Have you not found what you’re looking for?”

He frowns, uncertain how to respond.  Sally beats him to it anyhow, reaching into the pocket of her patchwork dress and pulling out a forget-me-not, tucking it into his vest.  “You will, dear.  I’ve _seen_ it.”

He quirks a brow at her, but keeps quiet, hard pressed to contradict a lady.  He’s heard talk of her visions of the future, but it’s a load of rubbish as far as he’s concerned. 

He allows a moment to pass, then changes the subject.  “Are we banished, then?”

Sally laughs, generously allowing him to brush her off.  “Certainly not.  You’re far too wicked.”  She pats his shoulder.  “But don’t make it any harder on Jack, hm?”

He nods.  “Of course, m’lady.  I – ”

“Oops!” she interrupts, gasping as her elbow comes loose.  “Popped a seam.”  She pulls a needle from her hair, practically dancing down the dock as she leaves in a whirlwind, her voice a mere echo as she shouts.  “See you Halloween!”  Nyx meows – a rather pitiful sound – and leaps down from her perch on his shoulder, following after Sally.  She’s a fickle thing, so he’s unsurprised to see her go, if not a bit disappointed.

He’s still watching cat and lady alike flit away when Smee appears once more.  “If we can’t roam the Town…sire, the crew will grow restless.  We must do _something_!”

Killian grinds his teeth, jaw ticking.  There are times when he rightly prefers the dead to the living.  “Mr. Smee,” he says.  The calm, quiet manner in which he speaks belies his irritation.  “I’ve been meaning to inquire as to whose ship it is we’re standing on.”

Smee winds his hat about in his hands, knuckles draining white.  “Well… _yours_ sire…b-but – ”

“I’m _sorry_.”  Killian takes another step, voice rising, nearly stomping on Smee’s toes as the man shuffles backwards.  “It’s just it seems I’ve forgotten.  Being rather _eternal_ – well a man’s brain can get a bid addled, you see.”

“ _Please_ , sire.”  Smee’s voice is barely a whisper.

Killian could gut the man just as he stands.  But it wouldn’t do much good – and Killian cringes at the idea of a crew member with flesh melting from their bones.  It’s difficult enough to keep the ship tidy as it is.

So he breathes in his nose, and out his mouth, reminding himself that there are, in fact, several days before the festivities ramp their way into hysteria.  Smee senses the change in his demeanor, pulling his hat back over his head.

“Is everyone currently on board, Mr. Smee?”  Smee nods.  “Bring them on the main, then.”

“Aye, Captain.” 

Killian climbs the quarter deck, reaching up with his hook to steady himself on a loose bit of rigging by the mainmast.  He watches as the crew lumbers and rattles and rolls their way into view.  “Alright, gents.  Since you scurvy lot can’t spend _one night_ in Halloween without bringing the ire of the Pumpkin Queen down upon us, we’ll have to spend the holiday’s eve elsewhere…”

They grumble –

“…in Independence Day Town.”

– and then cheer.

He grins wickedly.  “There’s nothing in this realm a bit of fire can’t cure, aye?”

“Aye!” they chorus.

“Anchors aweigh, then!”

They’re still cheering as they scramble about.  Years ago, Killian had heard talk of a stash of specially enchanted fireworks the residents of the Town hid alongside the sea.  He’d never bothered with it before, as there were women and booze and firecrackers aplenty in the Town proper.  He imagines the revelry there will keep the crew occupied while he sets out alone on the chase – simultaneously quenching his thirst for pandemonium _and_ for a good stretch of peace.  To be fair, half of the lot are a bit too _dead_ to sleep, so he can hardly imagine the extra time they must have on their hands.  Or bones, as it were.

At any rate, a brief holiday elsewhere certainly won’t hurt.  Well – he laughs darkly to himself as he mans the helm – not _them_ , anyway.

* * *

The moon is at the apex of its nightly journey as Killian sails alongside Independence’s seaside cliffs with a three-man crew – aside from himself, Smee and, curiously enough, a pile of bones by the name of Wiggins, an old salt who’d been with him since time first began to unwind.  They’ve a rough location on the cave wherein lies the stash of fireworks, information bartered with an outrageously sloshed innkeeper for three barrels of the Jolly’s finest ales.

“I think I’ve spotted it, Captain!”  Wiggins shouts from the crow’s nest.  Killian hurries to starboard, Smee close behind him, peering into the night.  Unlike Halloween, the air here is clear, rather bright under the light of the moon and the stars.  The waters also glow a faint blue, so it’s not difficult to see the too-perfect, square cutout in the rock.  A few minutes more, and they’re dropping anchor. 

He will have to traverse the passageway alone while Smee and Wiggins man the ship.  The winds in this realm are unfamiliar to him.  He’s never had much taste for Independence Day Town.  The near constant drunken merriment and overindulgence is a bit much for him.  He much prefers Halloween.  As an unfortunate consequence, he’s frightfully ignorant of the vagaries of the weather.

“Keep a close eye on her, Mr. Smee,” he commands as he sheds his jacket.  “A few stiff winds and she’ll be yonder.”

“Aye, sire." 

“And come down from there, Wiggins!” he shouts up at the crow’s nest.  “Before a scavenger carries your sorry bones straight to hell!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!”

Smee lowers him in a skiff, and it’s not far until he’s at the base of the cliff.  He ties the skiff to a particularly jagged jut of rock.  A few steps up the face of the rock, and he’s in the cavern.  It’s winding, occasionally confining to the point of claustrophobia, occasionally opening to a cavernous grotto.  It’s dark, but not unmanageably so.  The water that’s dripping and pooling about the cavern casts a faint glimmer, enough that he’s none too worried about impaling himself on any ill placed stalagmites.

He _is_ , however, wildly uncomfortable.  He’s sopping, which he _hates_.  Killian is on the verge of lamenting this entire journey, grumbling to himself as he squeezes water from his shirt, when, after a sudden turn, the cavern’s roof opens a mere crack to the sky, a shaft of light pouring down on a tremendous pile of rockets.

For a moment, he simply stares, circling them, noting that each is beset with an intricate drawing.  Some with emblems of fire, others water, curiously enough.

And a handful, he notes, with sea serpents and dragons.  Naturally, he sets his sights on these first, flipping his satchel open with a flourish.  He grins – a nasty thing, the devil in his eyes, greed flushing the skin of his cheeks, his ears – and reaches for his plunder.  Chaos lights a fire behind his eyes, and he imagines the ensuing ruckus of these colorful rockets with unhinged glee.  He grasps one in his hand, lifts it towards his satchel and –

 – and it disappears before his eyes.  Killian, balanced on the tips of his toes, nearly falls back, mouth falling open in both shock and protest.  He’s moments away from lunging angrily for another when he hears it.

Beautiful, _musical_ laughter.  He looks up, and cold, clear blue meet a deep, ragged jade.  His breath catches in his throat.  Treasure he’s seen; envied, _taken_ with lust in his heart and blood slick on his leather.

But never before has it breathed.

Flesh on her bones.

Light in her hair.

Pearls in her smile.

Gemstones in her eyes.

“Ah,” she says.  “The Pirate King.”

He falters for a moment.  But he catches his bearings, and stands tall, smirking at her, eyes roaming from her head to her feet.  She’s dressed in leather and cotton, curious swatches of pink adorning the ruffles of her tunic, winding down the seams of her breeches, disappearing in the lips of her boots.  She’s a vision, and he would rightly kill to just _stare_ at her until the end of time rolls back into its beginning. 

“Ah,” he echoes, giving a faint bow.  “You must be my Queen.  It’s been too long, love.”

She laughs again, and the sound of it skitters down into his heart, giving it a squeeze.  “Aren’t you a gentleman.”

“Always, love.”

“Well, then, you’ll excuse me while I’m on my way.”

She’s smiling yet, but she moves to step around him.  He mirrors her, blocking her movements in what feels oddly like an intimate dance.  She looks up at him, eyelashes aflutter for a moment before she frowns. 

“What?” she demands, frown deepening as she moves and he mirrors yet again. 

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with those, love.”  He draws his sword with a flourish, leaning back on his heel as she draws her own.  It too, he notes with a quirk of his lips, throws the glimmer of this underground grotto back at him with tinges of pink.

“Like hell you won’t.  There are like, a _million_ more of these things right over there.”

He tuts.  “ _Pirate_ , love.  Not famous for sharing, are we?”

“So you’re going to make me kill you instead?”

Killian laughs, guffaws really, charmed by her brashness.  “I’m ready when you are.”

A breath, and then she lunges.  He parries, but not without a bit of difficulty.  He has strength on his side, but as she flits easily from one side to other, his blade glancing clumsily off hers as she does, he realizes she has agility on hers.  For the first time in his long, wandering, wretched existence, he finds himself questioning whether he will leave a battle alive.

It’s _exhilarating_.  The gorgeous creature before him appears to agree, if the smirk on her lips and the flush creeping down her chest is anything to go by.

The game continues for what seems like _hours_ , until they’re near exhaustion.  They circle one another carefully, but also closely.  Close enough for an easy disarmament, Killian is sure, but he’s not quite certain that they’re even fighting any more.  He looks down into her eyes as he pants.  Her pupils are blown wide, her chest heaving.  They study one another until their breathing calms, and he finds himself wondering at the wordless conversation they’ve just had.  They’re still now, and he can’t help it, he must know –

“What’s your name?”

The lass bites her lip, uncertainty in the way she gnaws the flesh red.  He nearly forgets he asked her a question as he watches her worry it slick and swollen.

“What’s yours?” she counters, at last.

He happily obliges, inclining his head with a twirl of his sword and a twist of his hook.  “Killian Jones, Pirate King, traveler of realms, debaucher of sacred items, at your service, love.”

Killian looks up, and she’s smiling again.  Certainly this exchange is coming to a raucous end, but he’ll fight to make her smile until she’s gone from his sight.

“Emma,” she replies.  She steps close to him, hands behind her back, demure expression on her face.  “Emma Swan.”

He’s positively enthralled.

Which is perhaps why he doesn’t spot the rock she must have summoned into the palm of her hand, and _perhaps why_ he’s rolling her name over and over again on his tongue instead of ducking as she punches him square in the jaw, knocking him on his arse.

When he comes to, she’s long gone.  He rights himself with a groan, pulling at the skin on his jaw.  It will bruise, he’s certain, and he’s killed men and women for much less.  And yet…

“And yet,” he whispers, mouth twisting in a bruised, half-smirk.  He thought himself addicted to treasure, to adventure.  Out on the prow of the Jolly Roger, breathing in the salt of the sea, moving unbound from Town to Town.  He’s chased the thrill with dogged determination, his blood roiling in his veins. 

But this lass – _seven hells_ – she’s set his soul on fire.  He’s nothing but blood on his lips and a picture in his mind, and with that alone, he will follow her to the end of the world, to the most wretched of Underplaces, should he have to. 

* * *

So he does.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure where’s she’s from.  After all, he’s travelled all the Towns many times over.  The pink of her clothes, the heart of her pendant, it was painfully obvious the moment he’d raked his eyes over her glorious form.

Only…he’s never taken to frequenting the Town of St. Valentine.  It is, after all, dreadfullydull, should anyone care to ask his opinion.  Wiggins had once talked him into smuggling a great deal of candy from under the nose of the King, and after a bit of cajoling, and no small amount of eye rolling, he’d finally agreed.  The King of the Town, he was a tall, fair sort of fellow, apparently calm in nature and intimidating in stature.  But as Killian and his crew has absconded with an absurd amount of sweets, the King had devolved into a fit of impotent rage as the Jolly took to the sky.  Old Wiggins had quite literally fallen apart with the force of his guffaws.  Killian had laughed so hard he’d nearly cried.

And of course, not twenty-four hours later, he’d proceeded to vomit every last bit of the sweets that he’d consumed with gusto in the wake of their success.

Needless to say, he only ever returned at the promise of extravagant bribery, and even then he preferred to keep the Jolly out to sea while his crew rowed in on skiffs.

But he’s determined to see her again.  Everything about her _calls_ to him.  Though he’d still left the cave with a stash of rockets, the minor victory had felt like ash in his mouth.  He can still see her – blade arcing through the air as she’d danced expertly around him – even when he’s back on the deck, tossing his plunder aside as though it were worthless.  He takes to interrogating his skeleton crew in his frustration. 

“You’re _sure_ ,” Killian says.  “Absolutely, stake-your-life-on-it, walk-the-plank _certain_ that you didn’t see a woman?”

“We swear, sire,” Smee answers.  “You went in, then you came out.  Wasn’t nobody but you.”

“Aye, Captain,” Wiggins says.  “No one but you.”

He growls, frustrated.  It occurs to him that he’s acting like a child, stomping about when he doesn’t get what he wanted.  But he doesn’t rightly give a toss.  So he commands Wiggins to weigh anchor.

“To Valentine’s Day Town, then?” Wiggins says.

Killian regards him suspiciously.

“I can smell it on you, Captain.  I could do with a few more sweets.” 

“I’m sure you could,” Killian deadpans.

“But sire,” Smee says.  “The crew – ”

“Can _wait_.  Likely half again as more will be _dead_ by morning.  Let them drink the day away.”

Smee and Wiggins exchange a look before they go quietly about readying the Jolly.  Killian takes to the helm once more, tenacity settling in his brow.

 _I’ll find you_ , he thinks to himself.  And they’re off. 

* * *

It’s night again by the time they’re in Valentine’s waters.  For this _especially_ , he doesn’t want any company, and he so he commands Smee and Wiggins remain behind once more while he rows to shore on a skiff, where –

 _Bloody fucking hell_.

– Emma waits, watching with arms crossed over her chest as he nearly falls face first in the water trying to get to her sooner rather than later.  He stops a mere stride or two away.  He means to snark at her, to demand his rightful plunder, to say quite literally _anything_ really.  But he’s rendered speechless, so he just… _looks_ at her instead.  Only a few days have passed, but as he gazes upon her face, he feels it must have been years, decades even.  In lieu of intelligible words, he nearly breaks out into song.

“Killian Jones,” she greets him, looking a bit confused – likely at his peculiar silence.  Her hands are on her hips.  She appears defensive, but rather receptive at the same time – eyes alight, smile threatening at the corners of her lips.  “We meet again.”

Unlike Halloween’s viscous, blackened sea, the water here is a mere featherweight – exuding, of _course_ , a pinkish light.  He’d once thought it overbearing, bringing to mind the burn of his own bile as he’d retched over the stern of the Jolly.  But now, it casts a faint glow over Emma’s face, emphasizing her cheekbones, casting shadows around her lips.

“Aye, that we do.”  His gaze falls to her chest, then further to her waist, the delicate curve of her fingers, then back up to her eyes.  “You knew I would come.”

She shrugs.  “I had a hunch." 

“More than a hunch, I’d say.  I don’t figure you for the gambling type.”

 “So you’ve got me all _figured_ then.”

“Open book, darling.”

She squirms a bit, then changes the subject.  “My father has guards crawling over the Town.  You’d better go before you end up buckling your swash straight to the guillotine.”

 _Wait…_   “Your father…is the _King_?”

“Uh, _yeah_.  Didn’t you know?”

Killian laughs, the force of it setting him swaying on his feet.  This is just too rich.  “Can’t rightly say I did, love.  I imagine he’d be none too pleased to know there are pirates afoot.”

“ _Exactly_.  Which is why you need to get the hell out of here.”

“I don’t think so, _princess_.”  He rolls the word over his tongue, smirking as he does.  This earns him another of her looks.  “I’d much rather stay with you.”

“ _No_.”  She grabs hold of his shoulder, attempting to turn him around.  But he stands his ground, even at the risk of another blow to the face.  “The guards are always on high alert before and after Halloween.  The stray trick-or-treaters are just rabid.”

“I’ll take my chances, love.”

“Killian, _please_.”

He hardly has a moment to relish the sound of his name on her lips before he hears a pair of voices up the slope of the beach.

“Please,” she repeats, pushing at his chest.

He backs away, but he looks into her eyes, suddenly serious.  “I’ll see you again…?”

The voices grow louder, closer.  “Ugh, _yes_.  Just go.”

He climbs into his skiff, pushing off the sand.  “Promise me, Emma.”

She’s already on her way, up the hill and towards a rather dreary forest, but she looks over her shoulder, words barely a whisper on the wind.  “I promise.”

Killian rows away from the shore, but not quite out to sea.  The guards walking the beach take a cursory look around – missing his boat for the waves, he supposes – before they turn about, likely to circle back around their route.  He waits a moment before rowing quickly back to shore.  He does a shoddy job securing the skiff, hurrying to catch up to Emma.  Likely she’s hidden amongst the trees, and he’ll wander until he’s blue in the face.  But he slinks in anyway, watching, listening for any sign of her.

He walks, and walks, _and walks_ , hoping to hell that his gut is pulling him in the right direction.  He’s just about given up any chance of finding her, feeling as though he could do without the hindrance of feet – _fuck, they hurt_ – when there’s a scuffle up ahead.

“That better either be you, Swan, or a monster come to kill me." 

The creature ahead startles, and he prepares himself for a grisly death.  But – he sighs shakily – it’s his Swan that peers at him from around the tree, clearly in the middle of pulling a tattered blanket over the rockets she’d stolen...well, it seems like _ages_ ago.  But like any good pirate, he holds his cards close to his chest, feigning ignorance.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

Killian smiles, relief slackening his muscles as he comes to a stop in front of her.  “I might ask you the same.”

She shrugs.  “Taking a walk.  The reds and the pinks get to be a bit much.”

“A walk,” he echoes.  “On purpose.”

She laughs.  “Not much for a stroll in the park, I take it?”  

“You may enjoy traipsing about in all manner of wood, Swan, but I prefer the sea.”

“Then, and I _repeat_ , what the hell are you doing?” 

He laughs.  “I’ve come to collect on your promise, darling.  A bit early, I must say, but I’d rather have what I want exactly when I want it.”

“Damn pirate,” she says.  She’s amused, though, if he’s not mistaken.  Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword, but her stance is loose.  _Good_ , he thinks, because he’d surely lose.

“Damn Pirate _King_ ,” he says.  “Killian to you, my love – ” Emma smiles, exasperated. “ – Captain Hook to those less fortunate.”

Her smile vanishes and she leans back, eyes narrowing.  She looks him up and down, and the play inherent in their exchange evaporates away, heat settling low in his belly.  “Hook?”

“Aye, love,” he answers, mouth a bit dry.  “Haven’t you noticed?”

She shoots him a look.  “As if pirates with hooks are wholly uncommon.”

“Fair point, Swan.”

She turns her head, eyeing him askance.  There are pieces of puzzles in the light of her eyes, and he watches as they fall into place.  “The Pirate King…and _Captain_ fucking Hook.  One and the same.”  Recognition washes over her features, and she startles him with a husky bark of laughter.  “Stolen any candy lately?”

He’d told his crew that, should anyone remind him of his brief tryst with sweets, he’d happily remove their heads and feed them to Nyx.  But Emma – oh _Emma_ – it’s music to his hears.  He hums, delighted.  “So you’ve heard of me, then!”

“ _Heard_ of you,” she scoffs.  “One heist, and I’ve been warned about you nearly every day of my _life_.  Can’t believe I didn’t realize…”

“Hm.  Well, love, we’d best hurry this along, then, before I perform another.  Although, I must say, I’ve had my eye on a much…shall we say, _sweeter_ treasure these days.”  He smirks, brow waggling.

She rolls her eyes, ignoring the innuendo.  “Captain Hook, Pirate King, _Killian Jones_.  Which is the real you, anyway?”

“Oh, we’re all quite real, I assure you.  Certain monikers tend to stick in different Towns.  Likely just the one, here, because I’m by no means a frequent guest.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He hums, dancing on the balls of his feet.  He’s no desire to relive the particulars of his last visit to the oversweet Town of St. Valentine.  So he pushes on.  “About those fireworks you’ve got behind you – ”

She groans, loudly.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He taps his forehead.  “I’m quite perceptive.  But seeing as I have no desire to fall on my arse again, I suggest we nix the swordplay.”

She sighs.  “What _do_ you suggest, then?”

He takes a step forward, and her eyelashes flutter a bit.  He suppresses a satisfactory grin, reaching up with his hand to scratch behind his ear, fingers trailing down his jaw, before he taps his lips.  “I suppose an exchange would be in order.”

She seems taken aback, and he wonders if this is all too much, if he should back off.  But even as she sways backwards, her feet shuffle towards him.  His heart, he fears, is suddenly too large for his chest.

“Please,” she says, eyes raking over his face.  “You couldn’t handle it." 

“Ah,” he hums, sidling closer to her.  His imagination may be playing tricks on him, but when he breathes, he swears he can smell her, fresh and sweet and _damnation_ she is already the end of him.  Still, he feigns a bit of swagger.  “Perhaps _you’re_ the one who couldn’t handle it.”

She regards him for a moment.  He wonders if he’s due for another pummeling.  He thinks he very well may be when she suddenly reaches out for him, grasping onto the lapels of his jacket.

But then her lips are on his and –

_– and he breathes in –_

And he is finished.  He was certain her mouth would be sweet, maybe unbearably so.  Yet, while a hint of sugar clings to her lips, her mouth bears the faintest echo of salt water.  Her tongue touches his, and – quite suddenly – _home_ no longer sounds like _Jolly Roger_.  He reaches for her hair, then down for her shoulder, then back up to her cheek, horribly indecisive as she kisses the destiny straight out of him.

Killian sighs raggedly when she pulls away.  His typical bravado crumbles as he opens his eyes, peeking shyly at her from underneath his lashes.  He’s grateful, at least, for the cover of nightfall, hiding what he’s sure is a raging blush.

“That was…”  What was it?  Words fail him, and he repeats himself, completely wrecked.  “That was – ”

“Shut _up_ ,” she interrupts, a hand gliding up into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp.  “Kiss me, dammit.”

He obliges, almost before the words are out of her mouth.  He tightens his arms around her, crushing her to his chest, whispering a broken, “ _Emma_ ” as he drags his lips along her jaw.  Her answering, “Killian”, breathy and yearning, nearly brings him to his knees.  It’s a good job she backs him up into the nearest tree, lest he melt into the ground beneath them.  It’s heady, it’s seductive, he can hardly believe himself as his hand crawls underneath her shirt, up the skin of her back, nor as his hook tugs at a loop of her scabbard.

And he can hardly fucking _believe_ that he doesn’t feel the tension in her shoulders, building to a peak then snapping like a bowstring as she stomps on his instep and whacks him in the groin.  She relieves him of his satchel for good measure, stuffing the fireworks in it as he skids down the tree, bark pressing bruises into the skin of his back.  He groans, and clutches at the apex of his trousers.

“Your move,” Emma says, flinging the satchel over her shoulder.  She’s grinning, even as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, lips swollen, angry red marks along her jaw and down her neck.  He’d be terribly aroused if there weren’t tears in his eyes, aches blooming all over his body. 

Emma seems poised to bound off.  But then – and his heart stutters a bit in his chest, even as he groans in pain – she appears to second guess herself, pausing and chewing at her bottom lip indecisively.  Killian begins to right himself, determined to grab hold of her before she can disappear _yet again_.  But before he can, she makes whatever decision she’d been mulling over, yanking her necklace over her head before throwing it at his feet.

Then, before he can blink, she’s gone.  He can’t find it within himself to be humiliated, even as he stumbles gracelessly to his feet.  Instead, he feels…

What does he feel?  It’s entirely unfamiliar.  Dissatisfaction, frustration, anger, an entirely unacceptable amount of sadness…

 _Heartbroken_.  A broken heart.  All the more so with Emma’s pendant swinging from his hook.  So this is what it feels like.  He reaches out, grasping the charm in the palm of his hand.  It’s warm yet, and he sighs, desperate to know just _why_ she keeps slipping through his fingers.

This desperation follows him all the way back to the Jolly, where, once his skiff is set on the poop deck, he stalks furiously to his cabin, uttering no more than he must to demand Smee and Wiggins set them on course back for Independence.

Once secluded, though, fury melts into sorrow as he scrutinizes the charm in his hand.  It’s a poor substitute, but he clutches it to his chest as he drinks himself into oblivion. 

* * *

Days later, he’s back to frequenting the deck.  But he’s been incredibly salty as of late, and even the crew, typically demanding and loudmouthed, have been giving him a wide berth, content at the moment to drain more of their stash from St. Patrick’s.  It’s dangerously low, but the thrill of leaping Town to Town and sailing on the open water quiets everyone’s bones.  They sing, they laugh, they gamble away the hours, alternately hushed as they drink themselves to drowsiness and hysterical as they gain a second, third, _fourth_ wind.  Were this any other century, he’d carouse alongside them.

But – and he huffs at the thought – it’s _not_.  He turns Swan’s pendant over and over again in the palm of his hand.  Does she mean to torment him?  Leave him with an echo of her lips on his, her hands in his hair, her hips in the cradle of his own – _oh gods_ – that will surely drive him mad?  If so, she’s succeeded _marvelously_.

Killian’s about worked himself into a state when Wiggins approaches out of the corner of his eye.  He adjusts his trousers a bit before he turns.

Now, he is no stranger to death.  Rot and decay are old hat, as well as the less than pleasant odors that accompany them.  Even so, he’s startled when Wiggins clatters over with a corpse in tow.  What little flesh clings to her bones drips on the deck, and he gives Wiggins a withering look.   He fights the urge to cover his nose as a stiff wind turns her wretched odor straight into his face – he is a gentleman after all.

“Who’s this, then?”  He lays the charm on thick, smirking at the lady and taking her hand, shifting the necklace to his hook, hoping his smile will mask his disgust as her… _sinew_ comes off on the tips of his fingers.

Wiggins hacks and snuffles, as he usually does before he speaks, bones creaking and grinding as he shifts from foot to foot.  “This is Juno, your grace.  She’s a load of tricks that can help you…”  Wiggins gestures at the necklace in his hands.  “…you know.” 

Killian quirks a brow, looking down at the necklace that now dangles from the tip of his metal appendage.  “And why, might I ask, am I only hearing of this now?” 

“Well, Captain, it’s no secret that you’re not fond of dark sorcery.” 

“None too, no.” 

“But if a bit of it could lead you to her…” 

Killian chews the inside of his lip.  He’s seen magic before, of course.   _Dark_ magic, however, causes nothing but trouble.  Still…  “You’ve something in mind, then?” 

“Indeed,” Juno answers.  “Just a mote of blood magic.” 

“Whose blood?” 

“Why, yours, of course.  A pinch of that with – ”  She snatches the necklace from his hook. “ – this here charm ought to do the trick.” 

He mulls it over, choosing to overlook the fact that the vulgar carcass before him had just wrenched something from his possession.  On the one hand, if it works, he can see her again.  And this time, he’ll remain by her side for all the eternities he has left, or he’ll die.  Simple as that.  On the other hand, dark magic is more often than not a fool’s errand.  He could search for her on his own merit, but he imagines the crew won’t take kindly to questing high and low for a woman they’ve never met. 

Wiggins interrupts his thoughts, quietly.  “Dark magic isn’t all bad.  You’re lost without her, Captain.  Frankly, you’ve been looking for her for centuries.  So have I.” 

“You have…?”  Killian’s stunned…but then he thinks back on their exchange by the cavern in Independence Day Town.  How he’d eagerly cast them on their way to Valentine’s, before the words could even fall from Killian’s mouth…  

 _I can smell it on you, Captain.  I could do with a few more sweets._  

Good Hades, he _knew_.  Somehow or other. “Smell it on me, could you?  What, _candy_ , or providence?” 

Wiggins laughs, the sound like nails on metal.  “Captain, I ain’t smelled nothing since before you were _you_.  You’ve got a destiny, Pirate King, and I’m here to see it through.  Now hold out your hand.” 

Killian obliges, if only because he’s too shocked by the man’s admittedly incredible confession to whinge at being given orders.  He hardly feels the prick on his thumb, but he does feel it when Juno casts the spell.  Oddly enough, it warms him down to his bones, tugging him… _somewhere_. 

“Mmhm,” Juno says, as though he’d spoken aloud.  “That’s her, alright.  Now follow it, Captain, and _hurry_.  All magic comes with a price, and you’ll be compelled to wear yourself dead in your search if you don’t find her soon.” 

He rolls his eyes.  “Wonderful.  In the future, I would prefer to be warned a mite sooner.” 

Wiggins snorts, knocking his own jaw a skew.  He reaches up, holding it in place as he says, “Aye, you’ll find her, Captain.  Now let’s away!” 

* * *

He’s not certain if it’s the magic – or if he’s simply tired of living life without the beautiful and captivating Emma Swan – but he can hardly remember sailing to Valentine’s, never mind traversing the Town to where the castle lies at its heart.  Last he well remembers, he was scaling the castle wall, pulling himself along on a stalk of…was it _beans_? 

No matter.  Killian now finds himself stalking along the castle halls in the dead of night, toeing carefully around the dizzying arrays of flowers and overbearing statues. 

It’s a maze of hallways, and Killian has no doubt that he’d be hopelessly lost were it not for the charm glowing about his neck.  He’s taken at least three wrong turns thus far, but this spell – woven with something of hers and something of his – he finds himself trusting it implicitly. 

It’s clear as he slinks in the shadows that Swan wasn’t kidding.  Guards aplenty roam about, ridiculously garish sashes and flowers and charms decorating their gleaming armor.  But they seem bored, a bit miffed even as the continous merriment commences on the floors below and on the castle grounds.  So it’s no hardship to evade them, turning this way and that until he stands before an ornately carved door, the charm nearly burning in his hand.  He takes a moment to study it, eyes following the low relief of a graceful tall ship, the outline of a man standing proudly at the helm. 

He likes to think he’s the master of his own fate, but this is just wonderfully absurd, so he huffs a quiet laugh – 

And with that, the door swings open, and he’s yanked inside by the curve of his hook. 

“Bloody hell, woman.”  He looks at Emma – thank the demons it was her – wide eyed, affronted. 

“Well, I’m not going to sit around in here until I _die_.  What took you so long?” 

Tonight is just full of surprises.  He finds himself rather unable to respond for a moment.  Then, as he pushes the charm into his pocket, “You knew I would come _here_ as well.”  It’s not a question. 

She looks away, scuffling her feet – which, he notices, are bare.  This, in addition to an untucked tunic and half laced trousers.  She’s rumpled, and it’s positively endearing.  As is the flutter of her lashes as she speaks through her apparent embarrassment.  “I gave you that damn necklace, didn’t I?” 

The gears in his head turn.  She is a magical creature…  “Ah, so you know about the spell.” 

She shrugs.  “Most light spells have dark variants.  I’m glad you didn’t lose your other hand to it.” 

“Just a drop of blood, love,” he lies.  “Nothing to worry about.”  _Not anymore, at least._  

She frowns.  “And it worked.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Your blood and my necklace.” 

He frowns as well.  “Something the matter, Swan?” 

“No, it’s just…”  She looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and he feels as though she’s taking him apart under the power of her gaze.  “It was kind of a whim.  I knew about the spell, of course, but I wasn’t sure – I mean I never thought – _gods_ I’m terrible at this.”  She runs her fingers through her hair, a compulsive habit he imagines, and he files it away.  “I didn’t know whether or not I’d ever see you again.”

He tilts his head, confused.  “Seemed like a simple incantation.” 

“Well, yeah, but – ” 

“And you must have known I would follow.” 

Shyer now.  “ _Yeah_ , but, we have to be connected.”

He grins, arching a brow.  “Are we not?” 

She rolls her eyes.  “No, _connected_ connected.”  She places a hand over her heart, and adds in a whisper.  “Like fate.”  

 _Fate_.  His smile fades.  He can hear what she’s saying, and it sounds an awful lot like _True Love_.  He’d laughed over the carvings on the door, waved off the words of the Pumpkin King’s wife, even held a fair amount of disbelief over Wiggins’ supposed prescient meddling.

But here he is, looking into the eyes of the end of the life he’s known and the beginning of another.  He makes no qualms, and he’s no stranger to diving in head first.  Centuries _and centuries_ flicker in his mind – literal ages of thieving and debauchery and always looking for something, _anything_ that would bring it to an end.

And here she is.  “Come with me.”

She seems a bit skittish at times, so Killian had expected her to balk.  And yet, as she is wont to do, she proves him wrong, staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face.  “Where?”

“Halloween.  Or _anywhere_.  Wherever you’d like, love.”

She looks down, biting at her lip, clearly uncertain.  Afraid, even.

“ _Please_ , Emma,” he says.  He taps her chin, imploring her to look at him.  “Come with me.  You’ve ventured before, as I recall.  What’s holding you back?”

“I…”  She sighs, clearly frustrated.  “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

She gestures between them.  “ _This_.  I’m the product of True fucking Love, and I’ve never…”

“Never had it yourself?”

She shakes her head.  “Suitor after suitor, and I’ve never felt – it just never felt right.”

Killian hums, and then takes another step.  She has to look up to meet his eyes.

“And now?” he says, voice falling an octave.  He leans forward, if only to compensate for the fact that, in this state of dress, the top of her head barely reaches his nose.  But he waits.  His body quivers with the effort, but he just _waits_ , eyes burning a path along her brow, down the gentle waves of her hair, back up to her chin.  It’s bloody torture, and he nearly gives up before, _at last_ , she reaches up, hands framing his face.  She leans forward, lips chaste against his.  She breathes in, and licks the seam of his lips, but she backs away before he can reciprocate.

It’s only a mite, though, and her forehead presses into his, hands falling to play with the charms around his neck. 

“I…” she starts, pausing to swallow.  “It’s different.  I think I know you.”

“Aye,” he whispers.

“No, I mean, I _know_ you.  Somehow.  In another world…”

“Aye, love.”  He pulls her hair over her shoulder with his hook, and she leans into his touch.  He exhales raggedly.  “In every world, I’m sure.”

She grips the back of his neck with one hand, the other fisting in the fabric of his shirt.  “I’d know you anywhere,” she says, and then she’s kissing him, tongue curling around his.  A thousand eternities, he swears, and he’d never tire of the taste of her.  He pushes her into – well, into _something_ , and it grants him the marvelous opportunity to grind his body, knee to chest, sensually against hers, while leaving hook and hand free to roam.

Her hands are in the process of divesting him of his shirt when the door slams open.  Two voices, a man and a woman, float into the room. 

“Emma!” they shout. 

Killian figures she’s about to push him away, but she surprises him yet again, slowly disentangling herself.  She turns around, but her back is still pressed against his chest.

She plays it so cool, he finds himself wishing he’d recruited her to his crew centuries ago.  “Hey Mom, hey Dad.”

Her father sputters.  “ _Hey Dad?_ ”  He goes purple when he gets a good look at Killian.  “ _You!_ ”

Emma leans her head back against his shoulder, looking up at him as she whispers.  “Did I mention my father’s still _really pissed_ about the candy thing?”

“I can see that,” he replies. 

The King looks as though he’s about to faint.  “ _Emma_.  I – but he – and _you_ – what could you possibly – _all that candy_." 

Emma’s mother places a hand on the King’s shoulder, and says, “Frankly, I think what he means to say is…Emma, what the hell’s gotten into you.”

_So that’s where she gets it from._

Killian figures his kneejerk response of _I have_ will not be received kindly, so he clamps his mouth shut, happy to let Emma take the lead.

“He has,” she says.

 _Well fuck_.  He falls in love with her for what must be third time that _hour_.

The King, meanwhile, is leaning against the wall.  Her mother’s brow is nearly flush with her hairline.  Killian leans down, speaking directly into her ear, “You’re going to kill your father, love.”

“Ugh,” Emma sighs.  “Not like _that_.”

He coughs the word _sure_ into her shoulder.  He can practically feel her rolling her eyes.  She reaches back into the pocket of his jacket, fumbling around a bit, before pulling out her necklace.  It still has a faint glow about it. 

Killian’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean to them, but Emma’s mother gasps.  “Is that – ?”

“Blood magic,” Emma says.

“David.  _Blood magic_.”

The King – _Dave_ , Killian thinks to himself – seems to regain a bit of composure, if only to make a few more vowels before he chokes out, “But he’s a…Snow, _the candy_.”

Snow rolls her eyes, an impressive facsimile of her daughter.  “Will you get over the damn candy already?  Your daughter is trying to tell you goodbye.”

At this, Emma leans away from his chest, moving to embrace her mother.  “Not _forever_.  Not even for that long.”

He’d beg to differ – _he hates this bloody Town_ – but he knows it’s moot.  He’d spend the rest of his life walking through that bloody _forest_ if she asked him to. 

Emma reaches to embrace her father next.  As she does, Killian spots the exact moment when David catches sight of just how disheveled Killian is over Emma’s shoulder.  His rather charming befuddlement takes a wicked turn into _murderous_.

Emma seems to sense the change in her father’s mood.  “Don’t hate him, Dad.”  She leans back, looking him in the eye.  “You told me story after story of yours and Mom’s adventures.  It’s time I have some of my own, don’t you think?”

David grumbles, but acquiesces, embracing her once more before letting her go.  She walks back towards Killian.  Despite the absurdity of the situation, he can’t help but smile at her.  “Alright, love?”

She nods, hand reaching for his, the other curling around his hook.  When he manages to tear his eyes away from her, her parents are gone.

“They took that rather well, don’t you think?” he says.  “And rather quickly, if I might add.”

“Eh,” she says.  “It’s Valentine’s Day Town.  People are always running around, falling head over _ass_ in love.  Besides, I told Mom about you already.” 

Killian laughs.  “You’re joking.”

“Nope.  But we figured Dad would recruit _literally_ _everyone_ into the guard if he knew you were coming.  That was partly for show.”  In love for the _fourth_ time now.  “Although, blood magic really _is_ True Love business.  That’s the end-all be-all in these parts.”

He laughs.  “Nauseating, isn’t it, Swan?”

“ _God_ yes.”

“Away with us, then.”

She nods enthusiastically, pausing to throw on some boots, and grab her, or his really, satchel.  They leave through the window – _pirate lesson number one, Swan, the dramatic exit_ – hook in hand as they disappear into night.

* * *

Another day and a night, and they’re in Halloween, having first absconded with Emma’s stash of fireworks, and then having rounded up Killian’s horrifyingly plastered crew in Independence Day Town.

They’ve just made their way from dock to shore when Nyx appears out of the shadows, weaving first between Killian’s feet before moving to Emma.

“This your friend?” she says, reaching down to give the kitty a pat on the head.

“Indeed,” Killian answers.  “Centuries, now.”

He winces when a tuft of moist fur sticks to Emma’s hand.  She studies it for a moment before she smiles, “That’s disgusting… _I love it_.” 

Killian laughs, taking her hand, and readjusting the satchel over his shoulder.  He looks her over, eyes raking over her body until there’s a magnificent blush spreading down her chest.  “I think Halloween suits you, Swan.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Let’s set some shit on fire.”

“As you wish, my love.”

She takes his hand, and they run into town, Nyx bounding after them.  Several members of his crew are already out and about, stomping through the pumpkin patch, terrorizing the children, pilfering witch’s brooms, and so on.  They pass Wiggins as they’re on their way, who stresses, _yet again_ , how ecstatic he is.

“King and Queen, together at last,” he says.  He brushes an imaginary tear from under the socket of his eye.

Emma smiles.  “Wiggins, you softie.” 

The skeleton of a man is now outright sobbing, bones falling as he does, muttering unintelligibly.  They edge away, until they’re in the Town square proper.

“Now _that’s_ out of the way,” Killian huffs.

“We’ll just have to put him back together tomorrow.”

“That poor sod can put _himself_ back together.  Meanwhile…”

Killian reaches in his satchel, pulling out the firework, the very same that sparked the chase between he and Emma.  He’s never thought of himself as the sentimental sort, but he can’t help but to cradle it for a moment before it sets it on the ground, reaching in his pocket for a match.

“You know, love, you never did tell me what compelled you to search for these fireworks in the first place.” 

“Well…” she trails off, hands on her hips.  “Not really sure.  I’d heard of them before.  I just… _wanted_ to, I guess.”

“Wanted to?  Or _needed_ to?”  He waggles his brow.

She chuckles.  “Don’t be gross.  Also, slow your ego.  We _already_ know it’s True Love.”

He hums, a low, gravelly sound in his throat.  He’s reaching down, about to light the firework, when Emma slaps his hand.  “You’ll blow your face off.”

He laughs.  “Something you’ve grown rather fond of, I imagine.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says.  But she doesn’t contradict him, instead reaching up to kiss him wetly on the cheek.  He means to kiss her back, but he’s foiled as she yanks him backwards by his hook, dragging him around the corner of a little stone house.  She flashes him a smile, then flicks her wrist.  Immediately, the firework launches into the sky, exploding in a burst of color like he’s never seen.  Swirls of light converge into the shape of a dragon, swooping down over the Town.  The citizens scream, most of them in delight – aside from the mayor, of course, who is already shouting in fright and log rolling down a hill up the way.

Killian and Emma both are laughing so hard they’re doubled over.  They set a few more, and soon enough there’s a Town wide ruckus. 

They’re watching a particularly absurd skeletal firework with a top hat and a cane doing a dance through the sky, when Killian feels a bony hand on his shoulder.  He turns, and then smiles. 

“Ah,” Killian says.  Emma turns at the sound of his voice, starting a bit as she does.  “If it isn’t the Pumpkin King himself.”

Jack Skellington grins, a terrible thing.  “The Pirate King, here to wreak his havoc.”  He turns to Emma, reaching out to take her hand.  “And you must be the Pirate Queen." 

She shrugs.  “Close enough.”

“Your first time to Halloween, I gather.  Tell me, my dear, what do you think?”

“It’s very…”  Emma trails off.  “Horrifying.”

Jack looks delighted.  “You really think so?”

She smiles brightly.  “Absolutely." 

“All the better for your presence, your highness.”

“You’re not, I don’t know, _angry_ about the fireworks?”

Jack gasps.  “Goodness, no.  My children are thrilled.  The people are in hysterics.  What’s not to love?”

“Aye, love,” Killian says.  “This is Halloween, after all.”

Jack hums in agreement.  He seems to have more to say, but Zero comes tearing through the street, chasing after poor Nyx, hissing as she runs from shadow to shadow.

“Oh my,” Jack says.  “Well I have a dog to catch, and a mayor to appease.  Make yourselves at home.”

Jack bounds off, Emma laughing as his bony legs carry him swiftly out of sight.  “What a character,” she says.

“So what do you think, my love?”  He reaches down, nudging her fingers with his hook.  She doesn’t look at him, but she smiles and grips the metal appendage with such a familiarity that his heart aches, rattling about in his bones.

“Of what?”

“Of _everything_.  Halloween, the fireworks, _us_.”

She looks up at him.  She studies his face for a moment before she pulls him close, one hand crawling into his jacket and up his shirt, while the other drags down his jaw.  “I love it.”

Killian heaves a sigh.  “Which one?”

She leans up on her toes, nose brushing his cheek.  “All of them.”  Her lips are brushing against his when she adds, “I love you.”

“I – ” he manages, before her lips are on his.  Wherever they are, _this_ is home.  In the curl of her tongue, in the warmth of her breath, in the drag of his cheek against hers.  He could stay like this forever.  Only –

“Hook and his lady, chopping down a tree, K-I-L-L-I-N-G.  All hail the Pirate Queen!”

– there are demons afoot.  Lock, Shock, and Barrel abscond with the remainder of their fireworks, giggling madly as they run and chant. 

“Bloody heathens,” Killian says.

Emma laughs.  “I like them.  Also, I think I outrank you now.”

Killian shakes his head, smiling.  “Indeed.  Well, _your highness_ , shall we take back what’s ours?”

“Damn straight.”

She takes off, but not before he catches her with his hook, expression a bit more serious.  “And Emma?  I love you too.”

She grins.  “I know.”

And so the Pirate King chases the Pirate Queen over a hill in the Town of Halloween.  Eternity had once seemed a frightening concept, always more ahead than lay behind.  But as the last bit of moonlight slips over the horizon, King and Queen alike feel the weight of a lonely destiny fall from their shoulders as they sit together, now and forever.

_The End_


End file.
